Whipstitch
by Verbal Kint10
Summary: “Want to know what the Guinness World Record is for most funerals attended in a week?” House/Wilson friendship.


**Whipstitch**

They call him Garret likes it's his name, but it's not. Hasn't been for at least six years, when Wilson shook his scrawny little hand and said his name was Dr. Wilson but that he could call him James if he wanted. And the kid just nodded, eyes hidden under a bushel of messy hair that made him look like a sheepdog, and he said his name was Garret but that everyone, even his parents, called him Speed Racer.

His parents didn't call him Speed Racer. And now the priest doesn't call him Speed Racer.

His open coffin sits next to a table with two vases of flowers and ten framed, blurry photographs, none of them less than five years old, all of them thrown together last-minute, tear-damaged and torn like a procrastinated science project. Wilson has a better picture of him in his office. It was taken on the kid's picture day at school some time when he was still an outpatient. His hair was just a little bit shorter then, short enough to see his goofy hazelish eyes squinting into the camera.

Wilson sneaks a glance at the coffin. The kid's eyes are closed, his sheepdog hair replaced by nothing at all; his bald head has a shine similar to that of Wilson's shoes. The rest of his face is doused in concealer. It does its job well enough, covers up the veins and the dark patches under his eyes, but he still looks sick, too thin to lift a toothpick and too pained to sit up straight. Wilson looks away, overwhelmed by a sudden surge of nausea.

He looks around; other people can see it too. The open coffin was a mistake. The priest continues, calls him Garret again. Wilson feels like vomiting into the offering plate. His name is not fucking Garret.

The woman next to Wilson shoots him a look; he gets his breathing under control until he's no longer a distraction, and looks down as if he's crying. He's sweating. The collar of his shirt sticks to the back of his neck. His palms moisten the insides of his cuffs until he wipes them off on his pants. His top button is loose, he notices, hanging literally by a thread. He only uses this suit for one thing, doesn't make sense that it would be the first to wear out on him. But this is funeral number 26 this year, and he's dropped it off at the cleaners after every one.

He expects five more patients will go before the first of the new year, and that's being nice. Most of them try and hold out until Christmas—for their families' sake, usually. They can be bleeding from every orifice by December 1st, and they'll still try and make it to Christmas. And if they can't, it's Thanksgiving, and if they can't, it's Labor Day, Arbor Day, any date they can remember and call a goal. Because life is tangible, palpable, sufferable. Death is something else entirely.

Everyone stands at the priest's command and clears their throats, whipping out tissues as if they were raffle tickets. The organ plays and a sorry, pitchy mumble of singing fills the church, Wilson's voice included. He sings by heart the words others are reading out of hymn books.

Afterwards, everyone is seated, every pained grunt from the elderly a song in itself. And there are so many people. Hundreds. Every pew is filled with sniffling, sweating strangers. It's weird, the younger they are, the more people show up. That always seemed wrong to Wilson. What exactly about this kid makes him more worthy of a black tie and a drive than a sixty year-old? When does death stop being a tragedy and start being a part of life? How did a 12 year-old who spent literally half of his life rotting away in a hospital bed possibly meet and befriend _so many goddamn people?_

Six years. It wasn't quick and it wasn't pretty. The great Speed Racer barely had a life, and what he had was worthless, and nobody would ever remember him, and nobody would ever care. Six years, and all Wilson could do was be his Trixie, just another useless bitch whose only purpose in life was to yell, "Look out, Speed!"

A man steps up to the podium claiming to be a friend of the family, and he says he'll only say a few words. Wilson's never seen him—not in the hospital, not in the courtyard, not in the parking lot either. But he talks because the family can't, and nobody ever asks Wilson, which is for the best. For all his finesse as a "people person," Wilson isn't, and never will be, much of a public speaker. It's just one of those things, like photo-enforced speeding tickets. Or cancer.

The man goes on and on, until the eulogy doesn't even sound like it's in English anymore and Wilson is choking back sobs of frustration. Because nobody understands that Speed Racer would've been bored by now.

And when he's finished, the priest says one more prayer and everyone stands again. They line up at the coffin like it's a hotdog stand, and they tell the parents how sorry they are and they leave.

Wilson doesn't stay. He forgot Speed's Mach Five model in his office and he's not about to be caught in front of Speed without it. Besides, House is parked out front.

"Want to know what the Guinness World Record is for most funerals attended in a week?"

"More than two, I'm guessing."

"Actually, there is no Guinness World Record for most funerals attended in one week, which is why I think we should call them right now and fix that."

"Right. No coincidences here, just a well-concocted conspiracy to secure my place in the funeral attendee hall of fame. They're not even dead. Just--"

"Name them. Every person whose funeral you've attended this year"

"What? No, I--"

"No because you can't and you feel guilty? Or no because you can and you feel even guiltier?"

"I lost a lot of patients this year, House. Everyone has years like th--"

"Oh, cut the shit. It's getting worse. Used to be maybe one guy a year, some mutual pity pal who hugged you while I was too stoned to function. Now I'm just stoned enough to function and you're mourning over every chick with a lump in her boob."

"Is there a world record for most situationally inappropriate comments in one car ride? Because you'd have that one in the bag for sure."

"Right. Want me to drop you at the cleaners?"

"No, I won't be able to pick it up in time for tomorrow."

"We could always call an escort service, have them lick it clean. That's what I do."

"Button's loose. I'll have to wear a different suit."

"If I cared as much about my successes as you care about your failures, I'd be following a patient—a hot patient, mind you—to Vegas tomorrow morning. Sleep in; the guy's dead anyway."

"It's a her. Elly Hall. And I don't do it for them."

"Yeah. I know."

26 times this year he's had to reassure himself that it's not his fault.

*****

Wilson wakes up late. A cacophony of Shit!s fill the loft as Wilson scurries for the shower, taking his toothbrush and razor with him.

It's only after he emerges, clean except for the bit of blood on his upper lip (the consequence of shaving without a mirror), the alarm clock buzzes. 8:30, one hour after he'd set it for. He glances at his night stand; the clock is facing the wall, like somebody turned it around to reset the alarm and forgot to put it back.

House is asleep on the living room couch, right where Wilson left him. His torso faces the end credits of a crime procedural on TV. His face is tucked between a pillow and a sofa cushion. The amount of time it takes Wilson to dash to the laundry room is spent wondering how House can breathe like that.

The dash is wasted. The suit is laid out on top of the dryer next to a half-wrinkly white shirt. Its top button is attached by a cat-gut thread from the ancient first aid kit under the sink.

Wilson gets dressed while another crime procedural starts. The funeral's in 15 minutes; he'll never make it in time. The House voice in his head makes its first appearance of the day, telling him that this dead chick won't care if he's late. Hell, she won't care if he goes at all.

But he gets in the car because he's lived with the Wilson voice in his head a lot longer, and the Wilson voice knows what's right. _For everyone else,_ the House voice adds. Wilson looks in the rear-view mirror and loosens his tie just a little bit. For some reason, that suit looks better today. Like something he'd wear any day.

He makes a turn into the grocery store on impulse, buys Elly some flowers because waking up late was not his fault. He'll catch up to her at the cemetery, after he goes for a drive, after he drives five miles over the speed limit, for Speed's sake.

In the meantime, he trusts the priest will pronounce her name correctly.

**From : ** **Noun 1. whipstitch - a stitch overlying an edge to prevent unraveling **


End file.
